Shell Game
by ShadowSpires
Summary: A killer is haunting the streets of Gotham, killing prostitutes. He won't be getting quite what he expects from one of them. JayDick. Genderswap.


Dixie didn't wobble in the slightest on the five inch red stiletto thigh-high boots as she swayed down the street with practiced grace. The high heels displayed the length of her calf, and the butter-soft leather hugged ever inch of lean muscle in her legs. The minuscule skirt and top showcased acres of the smooth golden skin of her midriff in complete disregard for the brisk turn the weather had taken in the past week. The relative height of the neckline seemed the only concession to the weather, but the skintight, slinky material completely negated any modesty-factor the higher line might have provided.

Her clothes, her posture, the sway of her hips, the lines of her body; these things were all her weapons, the tools of her trade, and it would be careless not to display them to the best of her ability.

The streets were more deserted than normal, wary of the predator who stalked the night. There was a hunter about; the shadows seemed thicker, every passing car more sinister. The last of the daytime denizens scurried towards their homes, and the night-people watched them go, contemptuous, envious; the night was when Gotham truly came alive, but these scurrying figures had at least the illusion of safety. It was an uneasy balance, an illusory trade-off, especially tonight.

A serial killer had been hunting Gotham's Ladies of the Night, picking them off one by one and leaving their bodies to be found, broken and brutalized, in prominent public places. Tall, short, light, dark, this killer had confounded the police with his lack of pattern and though there were more patrols in this area they could not stop him. They had issued a statement asking the women to stay in, not to put themselves in danger.

Hah. They put themselves in danger every night and the police were hardly concerned. Prostitutes were always in demand in Gotham, even on the darkest of nights, and Dixie couldn't afford to 'take the night off,' danger or no.

Or at least, she couldn't afford to take the night off if she had been Dixie. Or a prostitute. Or female, for that matter.

"Remind me again why I'm the one out here." Dick muttered, confident the mic hidden in his top would catch the soft complaint. "In this outfit. In this weather."

"Because you look better in that getup than I would, Big Bird." Husky laughter warmed his ear as his partner's voice came across the com-link, rich with amusement the other didn't even bother trying to hide. He almost imagined he could hear it's echo from the rooftop above and to his left, but he knew he was just imagining it, along with the flash of red his eyes were insisting they had seen. His backup was entirely to good to reveal their presence in sight or sound before the time was right "And have I mentioned yet that you are looking simply *edible* tonight, N? Hmmm, those boots!"

Dick fought down an entirely inappropriate flush at the compliment Jacyn paid him - he was not exactly unused to compliments about his body, there was no reason for this one to warm his cheeks so - and squashing the little place inside his head that wiggled like an ecstatic puppy at any compliment that came from *that* voice.

"And here I thought my days as a drag queen were over when you joined up, Little Wing." Dick said, specifically for the vaguely malicious laughter he knew the comment would garner - but also for the truth of it!

He had *hoped* his days of drag were over once they had all gotten over the shock of realizing that the young boy Bruce had found jacking his tires and brought home with him - was in fact a young *girl.* Perfect! No more revealing clothes, and stupid heels, and full-body makeup for him!

Of course, by that time, Jacyn had spent most of her young life living as *Jason.* The child had known that however hard life was on the streets as a boy, it was infinitely harder as a girl, and as young as she was it hadn't been that hard to mislead people. It would have been harder as she grew older of course, but by the time she started *looking* like a girl, she had been the within the safety of Bruce Wayne's household. Still, even several years removed from the half-feral street child she had been, it was worth more than your life to try to get her into anything feminine.

Only Alfred managed on occasion, and the memory of Jacyn, looking unbelievably beautiful in a pretty little sundress, face as red as the Robin uniform's tunic, glaring at Bruce and Dick who had bumbled into the kitchen while she was having tea with Alfred, daring them to say anything, and *completely* misinterpreting the stunned look and awed silence on Dick's part - ahem. Anyway.

So here Dick was, wearing practically nothing, in the _cold_, pretending to be *female* bait for a murdering rapist while his *female* partner cozied up on the roof in her cape and watched him, laughed at him, and made heated comments about the compliment those boots and skirt did his ass. He was lucky that the typical darkness of a Gotham night hid the faint traces of his scars makeup hadn't been able to conceal, the rather masculine line of his throat, and the furious blush he was sure was overtaking his face.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," Dixie giggled back at Jacyn's commentary when Dick's brain stalled. Once the comment that had come out of his own mouth registered, Dick could have smacked himself for encouraging her. The last thing Jacyn needed was encouragement; she was plenty bold and ballsy enough all on her own. He quickly continued, trying to maintain the light complaining that was keeping both their spirits up on this mission. "Unfortunately *I* am not enjoying this in the least. I thought one of the perks of having a female partner was that she got to do all the wearing of revealing clothing and acting like the damsel in distress!"

Dick made the teasing absolutely clear in his voice. Jacyn might not make very many claims to girlish things, but she could be downright prickly at anyone patronizing her for her sex.

Dick complained, *mostly* playfully, but truthfully he didn't mind the least being out here instead of her. It was the slightest bit chauvinistic of him, he knew - just like he knew Jacyn, not to mention Kory or Babs, would skin him alive and insist on taking the stupid risks just to spite him if she ever found out what he was thinking - but he much preferred her safely on the rooftops watching when they were out tempting the a canny psychopath out murdering prostitutes.

There was nothing like suddenly acquiring a baby sister to make one aware of the extra dangers a woman faced out in Gotham. Well, maybe aware wasn't the right term. He'd been *aware*; it would have been impossible not to be after several years as Robin and two very strong girlfriends. It was different though, with Jacyn. He was entirely more intimately engaged with the idea in light of the information that his new little sister was going to be going out and fighting that crime and corruption.

When their relationship had changed - when despite all his efforts death had taken the baby sister he had loved more than he had understood until she was gone, and fate had returned her to him, a little bent, but not broken - he had found himself both feeling both more protective, and less able to express it. He certainly didn't think her as less than capable - in fact there was no one who he would rather have watching his back. But he loved her with everything in him, and it terrified him to think of her in danger. Luckily his years as a hero had imbued him with a talent for working *through* otherwise crippling terror.

He had a feeling she knew how he felt, and allowed him to do the few little things he did out of the same mutual, unspoken, understanding that allowed them to move beyond the things in their past - that and the amusement factor involved in the fact that the few things he allowed himself to do to protect Jacyn normally were either things she didn't want to do anyway, or had the potential for humiliation on his part. Like this.

"That's just fine for you to say." He muttered, eyeing the car that drove slowly by. It sped up again, rather than pulling over, so hopefully it wasn't their guy. "You don't have ten pounds of makeup on you."

"Come on, Dickie," Flamebird, his partner, his lover, his volatile, beautiful, intimidating other half purred into his ear, more of that warm laughter in her voice that sent happy curls of warmth spiraling through him on even the worst days. "Surely you don't expect me to keep you from the joys of experiencing the other side of life?"

The truth was that Dick didn't particularly mind anything about the experience except the pretense of actually *being* a girl - and the serial killer, he wasn't too keen on that bit either. He was only truly comfortable while being himself, even if that was a self in a dress and makeup. It was when you added the false breasts, and the false mannerisms, and the false smile that Dick began to itch under his skin to rip it all off, to become himself again, just Dick Grayson who just happened to also be Nightwing, who would always be partly Robin, and who sometimes ended up wearing the strangest things for the Mission.

"Does that mean I get to dress you up as the burly, greasy, unwashed mechanic next time? Or does this enlightened sharing of 'how the other half lives' only go one way?"

Their conversation paused long enough for a group of young men to pass by, eyeing Dixie where she paused to lean against a lamp-post, letting the light and sharper shadows both reveal and conceal her. They snickered amongst themselves, but passed on quickly enough when Dixie didn't even give them a once-over, or approach them as potential clients. They were just stupid kids; they wouldn't have been able to afford her even if she didn't have specific prey tonight.

"Augh. Every time I do this I have more and more respect for the working girls for putting up with this shit every night." Dick said, once the boys were out of earshot. "I'm going to be so glad when we nail this piece of scum and I can go take a shower. A long, hot shower. And you're not invited. People who laugh at my outfit don't get to watch me take it off."

And there was the reward for his smart comments Dick had been looking for. God, he loved making her laugh. There had been a time, too long a time, when they had been at odds, and there had been no laughter in either of their hearts.

"Suck it up, bucko. We bag this bastard, then we go home." All teasing left her honey-whiskey voice, the tone deepening to drip languidly down his spine to pool in his stirring groin. "Then, we'll see about who will be joining who in the shower. As for me, I'm going to fuck you into the floor. I'm going to take you, and put you back into yourself. I'm going to shove up that tiny little scrap of fabric you have the gall to call a skirt, and erase even the thought of all the eyes that wondered over the exquisite body of yours. Of *mine*. If you're really good, you can keep the boots on."

Dixie's renewed steps wobbled for just a second before she gathered herself, image flashing across Dick's mind of himself, pinned to the floor by Jacyn's powerful arms; his calves encased in the soft red leather hiked up over her shoulders as the bright red of her favorite strap-on glided in and out of him, drawing gasping whimpers as it pressed in _just right, right there, more, please more, so perfect._Concealing makeup wiped away and his scars glistening slightly in the soft light pouring in the windows, the beautiful top half ripped, and the skirt flipped up to bare him fully to her, free of the gaff that really hadn't been that bad until about 30 seconds ago. Truly himself, regardless of attire, in ways he only really felt with Jacyn; cradled safe within the clear and indomitable force of her presence and desires.

His eyes began to scan the street with more vigilance. He wanted to catch this bastard quickly.

He had a date with his bedroom floor to keep.


End file.
